THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


The  Flcup  de  Lb 


AN     OATEN    FIFE 


PY-  JAMES-  P  -KENYON. 


NEW  YORK.  J.  SBLWIN  TAIT 
ANP  SONS,  IWMPDR  SIXTY- 
FIVE  FIFTH  AVENUE.  •  *  •  * 


CorVRIGHT,    1895, 
BY 

J.  SEUVIM  TAIT  &  SONS, 
NEW  YORK. 


And  whilst  his  py-bald  curre  did  sleepe, 

And  sheepe-hooke  lay  him  by, 
On  hollow  quilles  of  oten  straw 
He  pyped  melody. 

Argentile  and  Curan. 


And  pyping  still  he  spent  the  day, 
So  merry  as  the  popingay. 

Dm 


Dowsabell. 


759430 


The  Summer's  siirf  against  my  feet 
In  leagues  of  foam-white  daisies  beat ; 
A  long  the  bank-side,  where  I  lay, 
Poured  down  the  golden  tides  of  day  ; 
A  vine  above  me  wove  its  screen 
Of  leafy  shadows  cool  and  green, 
While,  faintly  as  a  fairy  bell, 
Upon  the  murmurous  silence  fell 
Tlie  babbling  of  a  slender  stream 
In  tJte  sweet  trouble  of  its  dream. 
Then  as  the  poppied  noon  did  steep 
The  breathing  world  in  fumes  of  sleep, 
I  shaped  with  fingers  drowsed  and  slow 
An  oaten  pipe  whereon  to  blow. 


CONTENTS. 


The  Reveler 3 

The  Racers 5 

Garden  Ghosts 6 

Nocturne 7 

Absent 8 

The  Bridal  Morning 9 

The  Inn 10 

The  Dawn  of  Womanhood 1 1 

Children  of  Yesterday 13 

Hylas  and  Hercules 15 

A  South  Wind 18 

The  Rover 19 

A  utumn 20 

Chanson  du  Matin 21 

The  Lost  Voyage 22 

His  Own  Received  Him  Not 23 

Come  Slowly,  Paradise 24 

The  Human  Need 25 

A  Song  of  the  Wood 26 

A  Book-Pressed  Violet 32 

The  Blessed  Isles 34 


iv  Contents. 

To  Her  Watch 36 

Heaven  Near 37 

I  Would  My  Song  Were  Like  a  Star 38 

Cupid's  Arrows 39 

The  Captive 41 

To  a  ChOd 43 

An  Immortelle 44 

Salome 47 

Arethusa. 49 

The  Cruise 52 

Nameless  Graves 53 

Rosalind's  Song 56 

Morning  by  Ontario 57 

An  Ocean  Burial 58 

Sorrow-Blind 60 

A  Song  of  May 63 

QUATRAINS 

Moonlight 64 

Nature 64 

Art 65 

On  the  Cliff 65 

A  Prophecy 66 

A  Volume  of  Verse 66 

Carlyle 67 

A  Modem  Joust 67 

Truth 68 

Carpe  Diem 68 

Music 69 

A  Challenge , 69 


Contents.  v 

The  Cure-Alls 70 

Rest-Time 70 

Love  and  Beauty 71 

Minstrels  of  Dawn 71 

The  Miser  Year 72 

A  Shooting  Star 72 

The  Bedouins  of  the  Skies 73 

An  Epitaph 73 

The  Guest 74 

Farringford 75 

Nature's  Renewing 79 

Laborare  est  Orare 81 

A  Nativity 83 

Song  of  the  Vaudois  Exiles 85 

The  Specter 86 

An  Hour-Glass 88 

The  Advent ...  90 

Love  gives  its  All 91 

Her  Violin 92 

A  Colonial  Ambuscade 94 

A  Puzzle 96 

Canticle 97 

Hygeia 98 

Forgiven 99 

The  Night  Angel 100 

His  Confession ....    102 

ZuOTTolfU IO3 

A  Vanished  Face 104 

A  Vesper  Prayer 105 


vi  Contents. 

Seaward 106 

Easter  Morning 108 

The  Milkmaid no 

At  Sunset in 

In  the  Cloister 113 

The  Dividing  of  the  Ways 117 

Sappho 1 19 

After  a  Fragment  of  Sappho's 121 

A  City  Thoroughfare 122 

Pereunt  et  Imputantur 125 

On  Judah's  Hills 126 

Content 127 

A  Protest 128 

Her  Coming 130 

The    Gypsy  Queen 132 

After  the  Feast 133 


She 


"  O  graceful  Amaryllis,—  regard,  I  pray  you,  my  heart-griev 
ing  pain.  I  would  I  could  become  your  buzzing  bee,  and  so 
enter  into  your  cave,  penetrating  the  ivy  and  the  ferns,  with 
which  you  are  covered  in."  —  Theocritus,  ''  Idyl  III." 

HE  shrilled  his  fife  and  woke  my  dream  ; 

I  heard  his  music  clear  and  thin  ; 
And  then  I  found  beside  the  stream 

The  flower-bell  that  he  reveled  in. 

The  clouds  were  floating  high  and  white; 

A  laggard  breeze  began  to  play  ; 
Along  the  bank-side  poured  the  light 

From  out  the  lavish  heart  of  day. 

I  knew  that  where  the  nectar  pressed 
Up  from  the  blossom's  perfumed  cell, 

There  I  should  find  the  tipsy  guest, 
His  pining  drowned  in  hydromel. 

3 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


O  wassailer  of  the  summer's  prime ! 

Gone  are  the  goatherds  from  the  plain ; 
Across  the  fields  of  purple  thyme 

The  yellow  sunlight  streams  in  vain. 

Drink  to  thy  lover's  memory ; 

Theocritus  is  in  his  grave 
Beneath  the  far  Sicilian  sky, 

And  by  the  murmuring,  sun-kissed  wave. 


an  ©aten  pipe. 


TIME  at  my  elbow  plucks  me  sore  ; 

Yet  I'll  not  slack  my  pace  to  hear 
The  one  sad  word  which,  o'er  and  o'er, 

He  whispers  in  my  ear. 

Upon  my  hair  he  dusts  his  rime  ; 

I  shake  my  head  full  laughingly, 
For  howsoever  fleet  be  Time, 

He  shall  not  outstrip  me. 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


Two  moon-white  moths  are  fluttering 
Athwart  the  haunted  gloom  ; 

I  watch  them  waver,  wing  to  wing, 
Past  many  a  spectral  bloom. 

No  footfall  wakes  these  mossy  walks  ; 

The  mist's  thin  streamers  trail, 
From  twisted  shrubs  and  writhen  stalks, 

Round  all  the  coppice  pale. 

Low  winds  amid  the  leaves  complain  ; 

The  firefly's  wizard  spark 
Makes  mimic  lightning  where  yon  twain 

Go  wandering  down  the  dark. 

And  still  they  flutter  side  by  side, 
As  night's  chill  currents  flow, 

To  that  lone  tryst-place  where  they  died 
Long  centuries  ago. 

* 
6 


lin  Oaten  pipe. 


THE  silver  shallop  of  the  moon 

Is  havened  in  the  west ; 
The  river  trolls  a  ceaseless  tune 

About  her  place  of  rest. 

Warm  sleep  hath  sealed  her  gentle  eyes, 
And  round  her,  vestal  white, 

Sweet  dreams  and  winge'd  fantasies 
Are  hovering  all  the  night. 

A  wandering  air,  soft  as  a  kiss, 
And  burdened  with  perfume, 

Steals  faint  with  its  own  stress  of  bliss 
Into  her  virgin  room. 

Be  this  my  wish  :  bright  spirits  keep 

The  current  of  her  dreams, 
And  ever  o'er  her  lilied  sleep 

The  good  stars  shed  their  beams. 

* 


an  Oaten  Pipe. 


SHE  comes  not,  though  I  tarry  long ; 

The  house  is  not  the  same ; 
And  every  echoing  chamber  speaks 

Her  dear  familiar  name. 

She  is  not  here,  but  many  a  mute 

And  fond  remembrancer, 
Like  subtle  odors,  pure  and  fine, 

Breathe  memories  of  her. 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


gritlat 

O  DEWV  splendor  of  the  morn, 

Fall  lightly  on  yon  vine-wreathed  pane ; 
Thou  honey-gatherer,  wind  thy  horn 

To  tell  her  day  has  come  again. 

The  shadows  of  the  night  are  fled; 

The  mists  are  lifted  from  the  lawn  ; 
From  peak  to  peak  a  shaft  is  sped 

Straight  from  the  kindling  heart  of  dawn. 

O  morning,  on  her  sealed  eyes 
Print  the  sweet  magic  of  thy  kiss ; 

Breathe  softly  on  her  where  she  lies, 
And  wake  her  to  the  nearing  bliss. 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


<Thc  gtm. 

How  quiet  is  this  mossy  inn 

Where  weary  travelers  lie, 
Unheeding  how  the  morns  begin, 

And  how  the  sunsets  die. 

Here  are  no  sounds  of  reveling, 

Here  is  no  flaring  light ; 
Here  no  fair  maids  with  laughter  bring 

The  tankards  foaming  bright. 

The  guests  sleep  long,  the  lights  are  out ; 

No  bustling  landlord  calls 
His  serving-men  with  cheery  shout 

Along  the  echoing  halls. 

Who  come  to  this  still  inn  abide 
Through  cycles  deep  and  sweet ; 

And  while  the  seasons  o'er  them  glide, 
They  rest  their  tired  feet. 


10 


an  <S>aten  pipe. 


Jiau-n  of  Womanhood. 

WHAT  !  have  my  rosebud's  petals  ail 

Unsealed  their  musky  treasures  ? 
My  little  maid,  grown  sweet  and  tall, 

Now  clasps  a  woman's  pleasures  ? 
Ah,  sure  it  was  but  yesterday 

I  heard  her  birdlike  singing, 
And  in  the  fields  her  childish  play 

Set  frolic  echoes  ringing. 

Now  all  the  glory  of  her  hair 

lit  golden  coils  is  lying 
Crown-like  above  her  forehead  fair ; 

Ah,  how  I  loved  it  flying 
Like  amber  spray  about  her  throat, 

When  through  the  sunny  shadows 
She  fairy-like  did  lightly  float 

Across  the  daisied  meadows, 
ii 


an  ©aten  pipe. 


Now  little  loves  on  velvet  wings, 

Like  bees  above  a  blossom, 
Hover  with  timid  flutterings 

About  her  virgin  bosom. 
Her  frock  creeps  downward  to  her  feet ; 

Her  dreams  grow  fondly  human  ; 
Ah,  one  more  kiss  as  child,  my  sweet, 

Ere  1  confess  you  woman. 


12 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


of 

For  we  are  but  of  yesterday,  and  know  nothing,  because  our 
days  upon  earth  are  a  shadow. — Job  viii.  9. 

CHIDE  not  that  these  poor  lips  of  ours 

Smile  not  with  yours  that  are  so  fair ; 
When  falls  the  frost  the  fading  flowers 

Scarce  keep  their  dream  of  summer  air ; 
Our  hearts  are  chill,  our  memories  sad, 

Our  laughter  is  no  longer  gay; 
The  songs  we  sing  are  never  glad — 

Alas  !  we  are  of  yesterday. 

The  skies  that  o'er  us  bend  their  blue 

Gleam  not  as  did  the  skies  of  yore ; 
The  eyes  and  cheeks  of  winsome  hue, 

The  beauty  that  our  darlings  wore, 
We  shall  not  see  on  earth  again. 

Our  pulses  faint,  our  heads  are  gray ; 
You  woo  us  with  your  joy  in  vain — 

Alas  !  we  are  of  yesterday. 


Bn  Oaten  pipe, 


The  hands  that  once  our  own  did  clasp, 

With  twining  fingers  warm  and  sweet, 
Have  slipped  from  out  our  trembling  grasp, 

And  lie  where  lie  the  quiet  feet 
That  in  the  old  bright  days  did  run 

To  meet  ours  in  love's  primrose  way ; 
Now  mists  o'ercloud  the  evening  sun — 

Alas  !  we  are  of  yesterday. 

O  eyes  like  midnight  stars  that  glow, 

And  lips  that  still  like  rosebuds  ope, 
And  ye  within  whose  breasts  of  snow 

Still  carols  clear  the  bird  of  hope, 
Your  freshness,  as  of  morning,  keep ; 

Gather  love's  harvest  while  ye  may  ; 
But  we,  ah,  we  no  longer  reap — 

Alas !  we  are  of  yesterday. 


'fin  Oaten  pipe. 


In  sooth  the  boy  was  holding  over  the  fountain  an  urn  that 
might  contain  a  copious  draught,  hastening  to  plunge  it ; 
when  they  all  clung  to  his  hand  :  for  love  for  the  Argive 
boy  had  encircled  the  tender  hearts  of  them  all :  and  he 
fell  sheer  into  the  black  water,  like  as  when  a  ruddy  star 
hath  fallen  from  the  sky  sheer  into  the  sea.  .  .  .  The 
Nymphs  indeed  holding  on  their  knees  the  weeping  boy, 
began  to  console  him  with  gentle  words ;  whilst  the  son 
of  Amphitryon,  disturbed  about  the  lad,  went,  with  his 
well-bent  bow  and  arrows  after  the  Scythian  fashion,  and 
the  club  which  his  right  hand  ever  used  to  hold.  Thrice 
indeed  he  shouted  Hylas  to  the  full  depth  of  his  throat, 
and  thrice,  I  wot,  the  boy  heard  :  and  a  thin  voice  came 
from  the  water ;  but  though  very  near  he  seemed  to 
be  afar  off.— Theocritus,  Idyl  XIII.,  translation  of  J. 
Banks. 

DOWN  the  aisle  he  singing  goes 
Where  the  gurgling  water  flows, 
Where  the  swaying  rushes  are, 
In  his  arms  the  brazen  jar. 
Never  yet  was  boy  so  fair : 
Swallow-wort  and  maiden-hair, 
Parsley-bloom  and  green  couch-grass, 
K-iss  his  white  feet  as  they  pass. 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


Now  he  bends  above  the  tide 

Mirror-clear  from  side  to  side, 

Drops  upon  his  glowing  knees, 

And  his  own  bright  image  sees. 

O  how  placid  is  the  pool ! 

O  how  sweet  the  waters  cool ! 

Ah,  how  good  it  were  to  rest 

In  the  fountain's  flowing  breast, 

Nevermore  to  rise  and  dip 

With  the  wandering,  brine-blanched  ship. 

Hark !  they  call  him  from  the  strand ; 

So  he  thrusts  with  eager  hand, 

Through  the  water-weeds  and  fern, 

In  the  wave  his  bubbling  urn. 

Lo,  before  his  witched  eyes 

Ivory  bosoms  flash  and  rise, 

Faces  sweeter  than  a  dream 

Smile  upon  him  from  the  stream, 

And  soft  fingers,  light  as  mist, 

Twine  about  his  yielding  wrist. 

Slowly,  slowly  downward  sink, 

Lower  than  the  spring's  green  brink, 

To  the  fountain's  pebbly  bed, 

Wondering  eyes  and  shining  head. 
16 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


"  Hylas !  Hylas  ! "  rings  the  cry 
Through  the  woodland  mournfully, 
Ever  startling  beast  and  bird, 
Though  no  boyish  shout  be  heard 
Answering  him  whose  weary  quest 
Drives  him  onward  without  rest, 
Upon  and  down  this  alien  coast, 
Seeking  still  the  loved  and  lost. 
Vain  thy  search,  O  hapless  one, 
Sad  son  of  Amphitryon, 
For  the  lad  shall  nevermore 
Greet  thee  on  a  mortal  shore. 


an  Oaten  Pipe. 


A  ROMPING  wind  blew  from  the  south, 
And  woke  the  dreaming  wood  ; 

It  kissed  the  rose's  crimson  mouth ; 
Rumpled  the  poppy's  hood ; 

It  crisped  the  waters  of  the  brook  ; 

Loosed  pine-scents  on  the  air ; 
And  round  her  pallid  temples  shook 

The  dead  girl's  silken  hair. 


18 


Bn  (Paten 


OVER,  ay  over,  'tis  over, 

Gone  with  its  dew  and  its  bloom, 
Gone  with  the  rose  and  the  lover, 

Gone  with  its  light  and  perfume. 

Over,  ay,  summer  is  over ; 

Days  for  the  wooing  were  brief, 
Brief  for  the  bird  and  the  lover, 

Brief  for  the  sun  and  the  leaf. 

Over,  ay  over,  'tis  over  ; 

Vanished  its  laughter  and  song ; 
Summer  departs  like  a  rover  ; 

Ah  !  winter  shall  bide  with  us  long, 


an  (Paten  pipe. 


HER'S  is  the  mellow  booming  of  the  flail, 
The  flaming  bough,  the  sunset-crimsoned 
rill; 

O'er  every  field  her  smoky  banners  trail ; 
She  sets  her  ruby  sign  on  every  hill. 

Her  garments,  drifting  o'er  the  fallen  leaves, 
Are  freaked  with  spurted  purple  of  the 

vats; 

And  as  she  glides  amid  the  amber  sheaves 
Her   locks    flow    down  in    golden  cata 
racts. 

There  melts  a  honey-murmur  on  her  lips ; 

Her  throat  is  tanned,  her  eyes  are  sunny- 
clear  ; 
She  moves  forever  in  a  soft  eclipse, 

The  rustic  darling  of  the  doting  year. 


20 


Bn  ©aten  pipe. 


Chanson  rtu 


MORNING,  morning  everywhere  ! 
Morning  on  the  misty  wood, 
Morning  on  the  gleaming  flood, 
Morning  on  the  drowsy  street, 
Morning  o'er  the  meadows  sweet  ; 
Skies  are  fresh  and  earth  is  fair  ; 
Morning,  morning  everywhere  ! 

Music,  music  everywhere  ! 
Sad  the  watches  of  the  night; 
Glad  the  coming  of  the  light  ; 
Now  a  thousand  voices  wake, 
Now  a  thousand  bosoms  shake  ; 
Hope  dawns  in  the  eyes  of  care  ; 
Music,  music  everywhere  ! 


21 


Hn  Oaten  pipe. 


Our  of  the  darkling  sunset-sea, 

Out  of  the  windy  sky, 
My  ship  comes  toiling  home  to  me, 

Climbing  the  billows  high. 

She  wearily  mounts  the  dim  sea-line, 
Treading  the  foam-wastes  down  ; 

Her  breast  is  blanched  with  the  bitter  brine  ; 
The  spume  is  round  her  blown. 

In  alien  deeps  she  has  dipt  her  spars  ; 

She  has  swept  from  strand  to  strand ; 
Her  crew  have  ransacked  strange  bazaars 

In  many  a  sunburnt  land. 

But  well  I  know,  on  this  evening  shore, 

My  ship  brings  not  to  me 
The  treasure  sought, — and  nevermore 

Shall  she  put  out  to  sea. 


22 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


No,  not  the  cross  on  which  He  hung, 

Nor  blood  that  wet  each  bitter  thorn, 
Nor  cruel  scourgings  of  hate's  tongue, 

Nor  yet  the  writhing  thief's  hot  scorn — 
Not  these  His  cup  of  woe  could  crown  ; 

But  that  which  crushed   His  heart  with 

pain 
Was,  that  He  came  unto  His  own, 

And  to  them  came,  alas !  in  vain. 


Bn  Oaten  Pipe. 


(Tome  £Ioufhj, 

O  DAWN  upon  me  slowly,  Paradise ! 

Come  not  too  suddenly, 
Lest  my  just-opened,  unaccustomed  eyes 

Smitten  with  blindness  be. 

To  those  who  from  Time's  penury  and  woe 

Rise  to  thy  heights  afar, 
Down  which  the  floods  of  glory  fall  and 
flow, 

Too  great  thy  splendors  are. 

So  grow  upon  me  slowly  ;  sweetly  break 

Across  death's  silent  deep, 
Till  to  thy  morning  brightness  I  shall  wake 

As  one  from  happy  sleep. 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


(The  Yunnan 


ALONG  the  snow-fed  rivers  of  the  north 
Ne'er  waves  a  flower,  or  fern,  or  fronded 

palm  ; 

There  every  frosty  stream,  and  frozen  firth, 
Lies  locked   in   white,  unchanging,    icy 
calm. 

But  where  the  spice-winds  fan  the  orange 

groves, 
And   trailing  vines  sway  as   the  waters 

sway, 
Is  heard  the  sound  of  many  a  voice  that 

loves, 

Fluting  its  song  through   all  the  happy 
day. 

O  God,  if  in  Thy  heaven,  where  all  is  pure, 

Peace  shall  infold  us  like  a  polar  sea, 
Here  in  this  changeful  world  let  me  endure, 
Where  still  warm  human  love  can  come 
to  me. 

25 


Sn  Oaten  pipe. 


^  £0tt0  of  ih*  WooA. 

O  JOY  of  the  life  of  the  wood  ! 
O  joy  of  the  swift  young  blood 

That  throbs  in  the  bough  and  the  bole  ! 
Mount  into  my  shrunken  veins, 
And  brim  them  as  brooks  by  rains, 

Or  as  rivers  that  seaward  roll. 
Let  me  feel  again  what  the  Spring 
To  the  heart  of  the  wood  may  bring, 
How  the  April  sun  and  rain 
Are  shed  on  no  leaf  in  vain, 
And  in  every  clod  doth  beat 
An  influence  deep  and  sweet. 
Let  me  stand  in  the  vernal  air, 
And  the  bliss  of  green  things  share ; 
Into  the  soft  dark  mold, 
That  wraps  them,  fold  on  fold, 
Let  the  roots  of  my  being  go. 
Now  will  I  rise  and  grow, 
26 


an  ©aten  pipe. 


As  rapturously,  hour  by  hour, 
Grow  grass  and  bud  and  flower. 
No  touch  of  the  Spring  shall  I  miss  ; 
Me  too  shall  the  south-wind  kiss, 
Till  my  dwindled,  pale  desires 
Shall  kindle  with  leaping  fires. 

Here  will  I  lie  ; 
Above  me  the  domed,  diaphanous  sky, 

Glimpsed  through  dark-braided  boughs. 
O  delicate-pure  are  the  palmer-like  vows 
Breathed  through  the  glooms 
Where  cloistered  blooms 
Are  screened  from  the  fervid  day. 
Thus  will  I  drift  away, 
On  tides  of  fine  perfumes, 
Slow — ah,  slow — 
As  the  smooth  waves  flow, 
Out  to  the  dim  and  mysterious  deep, 
To  the  fathomless  ocean  of  sleep. 
When  Summer's  riotous  pulses  beat, 
O  wood,  thou  dost  quaff  the  torrid  heat, 
As  men  the  sun-cored  wine. 
Upward  each  spray  of  thine 
27 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


Is  thrust  to  catch  the  sun,  as  flowers 
Hold  fragrant  cups  to  catch  the  showers. 
Blithe  are  thy  sounds  that  spread 
Through  arches  dark  o'erhead, 
Or  'mid  grasses  cool  and  long 
Break  into  endless  song. 
Here  in  a  sylvan  dream 
Gurgles  a  slender  stream  ; 
Listen — ah,  listen — how  it  sings, 
Winding    downward     from     its     mossy 

springs, 

Tinkling  like  a  crystal  bell, 
As  its  mimic  billows  swell, 
O'er  slant  pebbles,  through  lush  weeds, 
Or  'mid  dense  and  glistening  bredes 
Of  vines  and  wood-plants  trailing  low. 
Now  where  stiller  waters  flow, 
It  scarce  murmurs  under  breath 
What  the  bland  wind  whispereth. 
Here  furred  creatures  come  to  drink ; 
Brown  birds  haunt  beside  its  brink  ; 
And  where  fairy  bowers  hide, 
Frolic  shadows  wheel  and  glide 
O'er  the  silver-ridge'd  sands. 
28 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


There  thick  ranks  of  osier  wands, 
Thrilled  by  Summer's  warm  desires, 
Shoot  their  lithe  and  graceful  spires 
O'er  the  tide  that  purls  between  ; 
All  day  long  they  yearn  and  lean, 
Swaying  in  the  shade  or  sun, 
Till  the  halcyon  hours  are  done. 

Woodland  noises, 

Meadow  voices, 
Fife  of  bee  and  flute  of  bird, 

Wafted  hither, 

Echoed  thither, 
Rarer  music  ne'er  was  heard. 
When  the  filmy  moonbeams  sift 
Through  the  leaves  that  toss  and  lift, 
Wandering  lovers  sometimes  stray 
By  this  hushed,  sequestered  way, 
While  the  small  voice  of  the  rill 
Mingles  with  their  dreaming  still. 

Vanished  all ! 

For  now  the  days  begin  to  fade  and  fall : 
The  birds  are  winging  southward  ;  on  the 

plain 

The  pallid  light  lies  cold ;  as  one  in  pain 
29 


Sn  ©aten  pipe. 


The  stream  moans  by,  and  sad  the  pewee's 

call. 

There    where    the    dark   wood   skirts   the 
meadow-lands, 

Joyless,     with     tarnished     raiment, 
stands 

One  wind-swept  golden-rod. 
Upon  the  cumbered  sod 
The  dank  leaves  lie, 
And  fitfully 

Through  naked   trees  wail  Autumn 
gusts. 

The  lichen  rusts 

On  each  stark  bole,  and  day  by  day, 
O'er  love's  forsaken  way, 
Drear  in  its  solitude, 
The    gray    clouds    droop    and 

brood. 

Yet  when  the  snow  shall  choke  the  heaped 
dells, 

And  from  the  keen  north  swells 

An  icy  breath, 

With  threat  of    famine    and    frore 
death, 

3° 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


Then  like  a  gracious  prophecy, 
Of  prosperous  seasons  yet  to  be, 
Through  storm-winds  loud  and  rude 
Shall  breathe  the  benediction  of  the  wood. 


2ln  <S>aten  pipe. 


WHO  plucked  this  faded,  scentless  thing 
From  that  moist  nook  wherein  it  grew, 

Kissed  by  the  first  mild  breath  of  Spring, 
And  fed  by  April  sun  and  dew  ? 

Perchance  light  fingers  touched  its  meek 
Blue  petals,  as  with  loving  care 

It  pressed  some  sick  girl's  pallid  cheek, 
Or  nestled  in  her  silken  hair. 

Perchance  in  language  sweet  and  strange 
It  spake  what  words  had  ne'er  expressed- 

The  gentle  love  that  should  not  change, 
The  hopes  that  budded  in  the  breast. 

Where  are  the  hands  that  placed  it  here  ? 

Where  are  the  eyes  that  bent  above 
This  yellowing  page  with  many  a  tear, 

In  memory  of  the  old-time  love  ? 
32 


Bn  <S>aten  pipe. 

Perchance  far  hence,  in  alien  ways, 
Her  feet  may  walk  because  they  must ; 

Or  one  by  one  the  circling  days 
May  glide  above  her  sacred  dust. 

And  still  the  Spring  comes  as  of  old, 

And  still  the  punctual  south-winds  blow ; 

In  perfumed  aisles  the  buds  unfold, 
And  on  the  wood-banks  violets  grow. 

And  still  the  birds  flute  in  the  boughs, 
Still  fields  are  green  and  violets  blue ; 

And  love  repeats  its  world-old  vows, 
And  some  are  false,  and  some  are  true. 


33 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


(Thousand  Islands.) 

HERE  beneath  the  violet  skies 
Dream  the  isles  of  Paradise ; 
Where  the  sapphire  waters  run, 
Dimpling  in  the  summer  sun, 
Countless  white-winged  shallops  dance 
O'er  the  river's  broad  expanse. 
In  this  lotus-realm  of  peace 
Life's  sad  mysteries  find  surcease ; 
Here  the  heart  grows  calm  again, 
After  tempest,  tears  and  pain, 
And  the  soul's  o'erclouded  cope 
Gleams  with  rainbow  smiles  of  hope. 
Let  the  frenzied  world  pass  by, 
Cheat  and  wrangle,  fight  and  lie  ; 
Here  across  life's  turbid  tide 
Tranquil  influences  glide 
From  the  drowsy  hush  that  broods 
O'er  these  charmed  solitudes. 
34 


an  Oaten  pipe. 

Not  Avilion's  meadowed  calm 
Could  afford  such  sovran  balm 
For  the  eye  distempered,  blind, 
And  the  self-sick,  jaundiced  mind, 
As  these  billowy  isles  where  play 
Healing  breezes  day  by  day. 
Love  the  shy  forgets  to  wear 
His  accustomed  fillet  here, 
And  his  eyes  with  rapture  smile 
O'er  each  leaf-embowered  isle  ; 
He  this  haunt  his  own  has  made, 
And  within  the  dappled  shade, 
When  is  stilled  the  oar's  light  beat, 
You  may  hear  his  accents  sweet, 
As  again  the  story  old 
Into  happy  ears  is  told. 
O  my  spirit,  long  unblest, 
Fold  thy  wings,  here  take  thy  rest. 


35 


X-in  Oaten  pipe. 


OH  happy  watch,  to  lie  in  her  bosom  so, 

Counting  the  hours  in  that  delicious  nest, 
Hearing  her  gentle  pulses  ebb  and  flow, 

Rocked  by  the  motions  of  her  dove-white 

breast — 
Were  I  thy  jewelled  self  a  little  space, 

I  scarce  should   heed    how  Time,   the 

winged  churl,  flies  ; 
And  when  above  me  bent  her  radiant  face, 

I'd  smile  into  the  heaven  of  her  eyes. 


XI n  Oatcit  pipe. 


How  very  near  my  heaven  lies ! 

Who  seeks  may  find  the  place 
Within  the  azure  of  her  eyes, 

The  radiance  of  her  face. 

And  of  my  perfect  happiness, 

How  near  the  charmed  land  ! 
'Tis  there  where  goes  her  whispering  dress, 

Where  glimmers  her  white  hand. 


37 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


I  WOULD  my  song  were  like  a  star 
Hung  in  the  purple  depths  afar, 
To  lead  her  eyes,  through  gates  of  even, 
Along  the  kindling  paths  of  heaven. 

I  would  my  song  were  like  a  rose 

From  whose  sweet  heart  the  perfun    flows  ; 

Then  on  her  bosom  it  might  lie, 

And,  breathing  fragrant  music,  die 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


PHEBE,  wandering  in  a  wood, 

Chanced  to  spy  Dan  Cupid  sleeping ; 
Long  the  curious  maiden  stood 

Tiptoe  through  the  branches  peeping. 
For  the  youngster's  lips  she  yearned, 

Till,  the  branches  parting  slyly, 
She  to  slake  her  thirst  that  burned 

Stooped  and  kissed  the    rogue's  mouth 
shyly. 

Now  the  boy's  eyes  open  wide, 

And  upon  the  maid  he  gazes, 
Grasps  an  arrow  at  his  side, 

And  his  silver  bow  upraises. 
Swift  the  maiden  turns  to  flee ; 

Swift  the  arrow  follows  after, 
Wounding  in  its  flight  a  tree ; 

Hark  !  how  rings  the  maid's  clear  laugh 
ter. 

39 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


Cupid,  with  sleep-dazzled  eyes, 

Stares  a  moment  through  the  bushes 
Where  the  laughing  maid  still  flies, 

Then  adown  the  wood  he  rushes. 
Now  the  shaft  o'ertakes  the  quarry, 

Now  it  cleaves  poor  Phebe's  heart : 
Maidens,  ere  you  wake  Love,  tarry 

First  to  filch  his  every  dart. 


Bn  (Paten  pipe. 


WHITHER  fare  you,  Dimple-cheek, 

Sad  and  slow  ? 
Why  that  pale  and  pensive  face 

As  you  go  ? 

In  your  downcast,  wistful  eyes 
Half  concealed  a  shadow  lies ; — 
Clouds  are  in  the  gusty  skies, 

Trailing  low. 

Leaves  are  fallen,  flowers  are  dead  ; 

Now  the  day 
Clean  forgets  the  smiles  it  wore 

When  'twas  May ; 

Why  then  should  your  lingering  feet 
Pass  where  frost  and  flower  meet  ? 
Not  a  bird-song  ripples,  Sweet, 

Down  the  way. 

Ah !  'twas  here  the  gin  was  set ; 

Here  the  dart 
Pierced  thee — here  the  snare  was  spread 

By  love's  art. 
41 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


Like  a  bird  that  cannot  sing, 
While  it  trails  a  broken  wing, — 
Bruise'd,  fluttering,  captive  thing, — 
Droops  your  heart. 

And  it  throbs,  and  will  not  rest ; 

Throbs  in  vain ; 
And  you  come  with  aching  breast, 

Come  again 

Where  love's  honeyed  words  were  said, 
When  the  sky  was  blue  o'erhead ;  — 
Ah,  the  moments  that  are  fled  ! 
Ah,  the  pain  ! 

But,  O  summer's  darling,  wait ; 

What  though  now 
Birds  are  mute,  and  madcap  winds 

Strip  each  bough  ? 
Hastes  this  way  the  budding  year 
When,  despite  each  darkling  fear, 
Hope  shall  place  her  chrism,  Dear, 

On  your  brow. 


an  ©aten  pipe. 


<Ta  a  Child. 

O  LITTLE  hands  and  little  feet, 
O  little  heart  whose  pulses  beat 
With  rhythmic  motions,  full  and  sweet ! 

Soon — ah,  how  soon  ! — O  tender  one, 
Shall  winter  frost  and  summer  sun 
Waste  thy  young  life,  as  seasons  run. 

Come  hither,  press  thy  soft  red  lips 
To  mine,  before  the  rude  world  nips 
The  blossoms  from  the  fragile  slips. 

Not  far  away  the  city  lies 

Where  all  who  journey  pilgrim-wise 

Close  in  the  dusk  their  tired  eyes. 

Keep  in  thy  heart  the  morning  song ; 
Life's  longest  journey  is  not  long ; 
Sing  and  fare  on,  be  brave  and  strong. 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


TWAS    here  she   lay;     amid   the    pillows 

white 
Glimmered  her  thin  sweet  face  and  violet 

eyes ; 
Sometimes  she  watched  yon  moving  square 

of  light, 

Or  through  the  window  scanned  the  wist 
ful  skies. 


Outside  the  casement  tiger-lilies  swayed, 
And  flickering  shadows  wavered  o'er  the 

sill, 
As  through   the  vines   the   frolic   breezes 

played, 

Bringing  faint  scents  of  mignonette  and 
dill. 


44 


Bn  ©aten  pipe. 


Sometimes,  flashed  o'er  her  rose-pale  lips, 

would  come 
A  sudden  smile  when  through  its  circling 

bars 

Her  happy  warbler,  from  its  wicker  home, 
Poured  forth  its  song  amid  the  jasmine 
stars. 

There  are  the  plants  she  loved  :  as  gracious 

skies 
Shed   grateful   drops  upon    the  thirsty 

flowers, 

So  these  knew  well  her  gentle  ministries, 
For  day  by  day  she  brought  them  fresh 
ening  showers. 

Their  leaves  are  drooping  now  ;  the  bird  is 

dumb  ; 

Outside  the  sill  no  tiger-lilies  wave  ; 
The  vines  are  sere  and  dead ;  the  snow  is 

come, 

And  round  her  tomb  the  winds  of  winter 
rave. 

45 


Bn  (Paten  pipe. 


But    in    our    hearts    perpetual     summer 

breathes ; 
Her  presence  still  like  perfume  fills  the 

room ; 
For  as  the  buds   slip  from   their  velvet 

sheathes, 

She    softly    burgeoned    into    deathless 
bloom. 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


UPON  a  salver  in  her  rosy  palms 

She  bears  the  slaughtered  prophet's  gory 

head; 
Proudly,  with  placid  face  and  queen-like 

tread — 

Untroubled  by  a  moment's  rising  qualms 
To  vex  her  maiden  bosom's  happy  calms — 
She  goes  where  azure  wreathes  of  per 
fume  spread 
From  smoking  censers,  and  soft  lights  are 

shed 
Round  halls  that  throb  with  tabrets  and 

with  shalms. 

Now,  smiling,  at  her  guilty  mother's  feet 
She  lays  her  gift.  .  .  .  Ay,  those  stern 
lips  are  mute 

47 


an  Oaten 


That  erstwhile,  all  unawed  before  the  seat 
Of  kings,  did  dare  proclaim  sin's  loath 
some  fruit ; 
Yet,  hapless  woman  !  o'er  thee  doom-clouds 

meet, 

And  fateful  lightnings  of  God's  anger 
shoot. 


Bn  Oaten  pi 


V 


AH,  now  I  lay  my  parched  lips  to  thine, 
That  I  may  quench  my  blood's  consum 
ing  fire ; 

Swiftly  I  kneel  where  fainting  winds  sus 
pire, 

And  odors  o'er  the  earth  are  spilt  like  wine, 
That  I  may  touch  thy  cool  soft  cheek  with 

mine, 
And  heal  the  poignant  hurts  of  my  desire. 

How  have  I  sought  thee,  though  the  weary 

waste 
Reeled  round  me,  and  the  dizzy  light  did 

glare 
Athwart  my  darkling  sight,  and  thorns 

did  tear 

My  naked  feet  that  stumbled  in  their  haste  ; 
With  what  importunate  thirst  I  longed  to 

taste 

Thy  fragrant  breath,  thy  kisses  sweet  and 
rare  ! 

49 


Zln  Oaten  pipe. 


O  murmur  to  me  !     Of  thy  voice  I  dreamed 
When  through   my  dwindled  veins  the 

maddening  drouth 
Did  surge  like  fire,  and  from  the  pitiless 

south 

A  furnace-blast  around  me  ever  streamed  ; 

Still  did  I  hear  thy  voice,  and  still  meseemed 

To  feel  the  liquid  touches  of  thy  mouth. 

Upon  thy  bosom  happy  shadows  fall, 
And  tender  grasses  lightly  lean  to  thee ; 
Beside  thee  ever  pipes  the  sylvan  bee, 
And  the  hushed  flowers  hear  thy  faery  call 
The    conscious    reeds    weave    round  thy 

margin  all 
Their  slender  leaves  in  emerald  broidery. 

And  now  I  find  thee,  and  I  kneel  and  lay 
My  brow  to  thine,  and  bathe  my  anguished 

eyes 

In  the  pure  depths  where  infinite  sooth 
ing  lies 

For  thy  seared  lover  whom  the  heat  would 
slay; 

5° 


Hn  Oaten  pipe. 


To  thee  I  come  and  hide  me  from  the  day 
That  hurls  its  blazing  barbs  from  brazen 
skies. 

O  tresses  flowing  over  crystal  sands 

That  rise  and  stir,  I   plunge  my  face  in 

thee, 
And  feel  thee  ripple  down  my  shoulders 

free, 
And  in   thee  wind  and  wind   my  glowing 

hands ; 

While  from  my  forehead  slip  the  iron  bands 
That,  ever  tightening,  wrought  new  pangs 
for  me. 

Here  will  I  lie,  nor  ever  wander  more  ; 
For  me  through  endless  hours  thy  billowy 

breast 
Shall  lightly  heave ;  to  thine  shall  still  be 

pressed 

My  eager  lips  for  slaking  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
Here  will  I  lie,  upon  this  easeful  shore, 
While  thou  with  song  dost  lull  me  into 
rest. 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


<Thc  Cruise. 

THE  great  ship's  sails  are  all  unfurled, 
Her  prow  divides  the  ancient  sea ; 

Along  her  cloudy  track  the  world 
Sweeps  through  immensity. 

She  bears  her  freight  of  tears  and  graves, 
Of  trampled  dust  and  bloody  wreck, 

While  seamen  chant  their  jolly  staves 
Upon  her  rock-ribbed  deck. 

Day  after  day  a  throng  of  mimes 

Leap  smiling  from  her  swarming  womb, 

To  play  their  little  part  betimes 
Ere  falls  the  lampless  gloom. 

Her  weary  voyage  is  never  done ; 

The  winds  about  her  never  sleep  ; 
Forever  with  the  flying  sun 

She  cleaves  the  shoreless  deep. 
52 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


O  GRATEFUL  heart  of  the  nation,  keep 

Their  memory  green  forever — 
Our  laureled  dead  who  softly  sleep 

By  many  a  winding  river, 
Where  whispering  pines  and  sunny  palms, 

Above  each  grass-grown  grave, 
Recount    through   bright  and  prosperous 
calms 

The  great  deeds  of  the  brave. 

Shall  we  for  whom  they  freely  shed 

Their  blood,  like  rain  on  flowers, 
Shall  we  for  whom  they  nobly  bled 

Forget  these  knights  of  ours  ? — 
Who  fought  and  fell  where  shot  and  shell 

Ploughed  through  the  lists  of  death, 
And  as  it  were  the  mouth  of  hell 

Upsent  its  withering  breath ! 
S3 


an  ©aten  pipe. 


How  by  the  treacherous  morass, 

Through  deadly  mists  and  damps  ; 
How  by  each  wild  and  savage  pass, 

O'er  glooming  fens  and  swamps ; 
How  ever  towards  the  shifting  foe 

They  pressed  with  brave  endeavor — 
While  free  winds  blow  and  waters  flow, 

The  world  shall  know  forever. 
O  how  they  fell !     No  tongue  shall  tell 

Death's  red  and  plenteous  reaping  ; 
On  sandy  slope,  in  woody  dell, 

The  countless  dead  are  sleeping, 
'Mid  silent  camps  where  ne'er  again 

The  trumpet's  sudden  braying 
Shall  wake  them  to  war's  leaden  rain 

And  battle's  iron  slaying. 
O'er'each  lone  tomb  shall  summer  bloom, 

And  grasses  sway  and  bend, 
And  lightly  through  the  fragrant  gloom 

The  evening  dews  descend  : 
'Tis  well !  for  there  they  crept  to  hide 

Their  bodies  pierced  and  maimed, 
And  there,  unseen,  they  bled  and  died, 

Alone,  but  not  ashamed. 
54 


Bn  Qatcn  pipe. 


And  there,  by  night,  look  down  the  stars 

On  many  a  nameless  grave, 
Where  shadows  cast  their  silver  bars, 

And  misty  streamers  wave  : 
Back  to  her  heart  doth  nature  fold 

Her  own,  to  keep  and  bless, 
While  o'er  them  tides  of  sleep  are  rolled 

And  sweet  forgetfulness. 


an  ©atcn  pipe. 


In  the  Forest  of  Arden. 

0  LET  the  sweet  winds  blow, 
And  let  the  clear  sun  shine, 

For  all  the  world  shall  know 
That  he  is  mine. 

It  is  not  shame  to  see 
The  leaf  upon  the  vine  ; 

Why  should  it  shameful  be 
To  own  him  mine  ? 

The  light  that  loves  the  flower, 
I  take  it  for  a  sign  ; — 

Love  is  a  maiden's  dower, 
And  he  is  mine. 

Sweet  wind,  true  leaf,  fair  light, 
And  joy  that  shall  not  tine, 

1  know  love's  sovran  might, 

For  he  is  mine. 
56 


Zln  Oaten 


btj 

THROUGH  night's  barred  gates  a  venturous 

light  doth  break ; 
The  shadows  vanish,  and  where  far  peaks 

rise 

A  splendor  burns  along  the  opulent  skies ; 
The  birds  are  stirring,  and  the  winds  awake. 
Now  burst  the  meadows  into  many  a  flake 
Of  shifting  fire,  and  still  the  old  surprise 
Of  morning  kindles  where  a  glory  lies 
Upon  the  wrinkled  bosom  of  the  lake. 
As  yon  proud   vessel   parts   with   shining 

prow 

A  backward-curling  waste  of  molten  gold, 
Down  treading  the  smooth  waves,  so  out 
ward  now 
A  spirit-craft  fares  'mid  the  strange  lights 

rolled 
From  other  suns,  while  on  my  Love's  dead 

brow 

The  new  day  prints  its  kisses  sweet  and 
cold. 

57 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


3U  Ocean  Burial. 

MY  love  lies  where  the  wild  waves  beat 

Above  her  shell-strewn  bed  ; 
The  sands  are  wrapt  about  her  feet, 

The  weeds  about  her  head. 

The  calm   stars,   wheeling  through    their 
zones, 

Are  doubled  o'er  her  breast ; 
The  moving  waste  forever  moans 

Round  her  uncoffined  rest. 

Slow  through  the  gloom,  with  dreadful  eyes, 
Strange  monsters  o'er  her  glide ; 

On  gentle  currents  fall  and  rise 
The  tresses  at  her  side. 

She  recks  not  how  the  loud  winds  call, 
Nor  hears  the  sea-birds  scream ; 

Sea-shadows  round  her  ever  fall, 
Sea-lights  about  her  gleam. 
58 


an  ©aten  pipe. 


Naught  e'er  disturbs  her  sweet  repose  ; 

No  fears  her  breast  alarm  ; 
The  silent  waters  round  her  close, 

And  fold  her  safe  from  harm. 


an  Oaten 


THE  world  is  lovely  ;  but  our  eyes  are  dim 
With  selfish  tears,  and  through  the  blind 
ing  mist 
We  cannot  see  the  glorious  mountains, 

kissed 

By  the  last  rays  of  sur"et,  nor  the  slim 
And  nascent  moon  above  the  night's  faint 

rim, 

Nor  the  young  stars  that  keep  their  early 
tryst. 

The  world  is  lovely  ;  but  our  pulses  beat 
To  the  slow  measure  of  a  hopeless  pain, 
And  the  dull  throbbing  of  our  heart  and 
brain 

Shuts  out  the  vision  of  the  fair  and  sweet ; 

Yea,  even  the  beauty  shining  at  our  feet 
Shineth  for  us,  the  sorrow-blind,  in  vain. 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


The  world  is  lovely ;  oh,  when  night  comes 

on, 

And  long  and  lonely  vigils  vex  our  eyes, 
God   grant  that  over   all   the  darkened 

skies 

The  stars  of  promise  may  be  thickly  sown  ; 
And  though  we  wait,  and  watch,  and  weep 

alone, 

Yet  wait  as  one  who  knows  the  dawn 
shall  rise. 


61 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


^  £ong  of 

IN  the  orchard  close  I  see  thee, 
And  along  thy  luminous  way 

The  shadows  arise  and  flee  thee, 
O  delicate,  blossoming  May. 

The  dews  on  thy  sandals  glisten, 
As,  hard  by  yon  shaggy  bole, 

Thou  pausest  a  moment  to  listen 
To  the  song  of  an  oriole. 

The  pink  apple-blossoms  above  thee 

Tremble  to  touch  thy  hair, 
And  the  sweet  south  winds  that  love  thee 

Are  faint  with  the  passion  they  bear. 

O  fair  is  thy  face,  and  tender 
The  light  of  thy  laughing  eyes, 

From  the  deeps  of  whose  azure  splendor 
Wells  ever  a  glad  surprise ; 
62 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


For  the  ways  of  thy  life  are  sunny, 

Nor  dimmed  by  thy  crystalline  showers, 

And  thy  footsteps,  'mid  perfume  and  honey, 
Are  jewelled  with  radiant  flowers. 

Not  so  was  the  troublous  morning 
That  dawned  on  thee  first,  O  sweet, 

For  thy  birth-star  rose  lurid  with  warning. 
And  thy  birth-song  was  singing  of  sleet. 

But  terrors  of  storm  could  not  fright  thee, 
Thou  child  of  the  tearful  Spring, 

Nor  frost  in  its  cruelty  blight  thee, 
For  thou  heardest  the  orioles  sing. 

And  now  the  drear  days  of  thy  sadness 
Are  vanished  as  phantoms  afar, 

While  forth  in  thy  beauty  and  gladness 
Hope  beckons  thee,  chaste  as  a  star. 

And  thy  feet  press  the  odorous  grasses 
That  spring  on  the  uplands  and  leas, 

And  before  thee  the  wind,  as  it  passes, 
Scatters  downward  the  blooms  from  the 
trees. 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


QUATRAINS. 


THROUGH  night's  dim  gulfs  a  silver  radiance 

falls  ; 

On  dreaming  wood  and  city  square  it  lies  ; 
It  streams  along  yon  attic's  naked  walls, 
To  kiss  a  child's  starved  face  and  sight 
less  eyes. 

* 


SHE  clothes  herself  in  meek  simplicity, 
And  o'er  her  lover  spreads  her  hands  to 
bless, 

When  lo  !  her  garments,  rustling  to  her  knee. 
Flash  on  his  eyes  her  dazzling  loveliness. 


* 
64 


Bn  ©aten  pipe. 


No  cruel  mistress  she,  with  icy  brows, 
And  cold  eyes  veiled   in   haughty  half- 
eclipse, 
But  a  warm  maid  who  hears   her   lover's 

vows, 
With  gracious  smiles  upon  her  tender  lips. 


©n  th*  mtt. 

A  BIRD  on  yonder  crag  which  fronts  the 
deep 

Trilled  a  full  hour  his  wild  love-lay  to  me ; 
So  Sappho  sang  upon  the  wind-swept  steep, 

Ere  plunging  hopeless  in  the  gulfing  sea. 


* 
65 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


No  seer  am  I,  and  yet  I  know  full  well, 
When   o'er   my   book   thine   eyes   pore, 

misty-dim, 
To  thine  own  heart  this  secret  thou  shalt 

tell: 

"  This  friend  loved  me,  and  I  —  I,  too,  loved 
him." 

* 


THIS  is  a  plant  whose  slender  growth, 
Through  years  of  sun  and  gloom, 

Hath   yet   scarce   burst   the    bud's    green 

sheath 
To  show  a  timid  bloom. 


* 
66 


an  ©aten  pipe. 


A  WANDERING  cloud  upon  his  haggard  face 
A  shadow   cast — he  thought   it   doom's 

black  pall ; 
He   saw  a   transient  star   shoot  from  its 

place, 

And  deemed  the  reeling  heavens  about  to 
fall. 


THE  trumpets  of  the  morning-glories  sound 
A  loud  alarum  to  the  brave  knights  round ; 
The  joust  begins,  and  proudly  on  the  breeze 
With  lance  in  rest  come  riding  down  the 
bees. 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


Qtaitb. 

FROM  level  brows  her  eyes  look  straight 

before ; 

She  falters  not  to  seek  what  lies  beyond  ; 
Her  vesture,  travel-stained,  is  freaked  with 

gore; 

From  her  free  wrist  down  coils  a  broken 
bond. 

4 
(Tarpe  Ilicm. 

THE  beasts  that  roam  the  fields  when  Spring 

is  green 

Know  not  the  morrow,  mourn  not  yester 
day  ; 
Their  joy  is  now ;  we  pine  for  what  hath 

been, 
Blind  to  our  bliss  till  it  hath  slipped  away. 


* 
68 


Hn  Oaten  pipe. 


putt, 

A  SHADE  of  thought  lay  on  His  ageless  face, 
Till  suddenly  God   said,  "  Let  there  be 

light," 
When  lo  !  His  smile  like  sunshine  streamed 

through  space, 

And  music  thrilled  adown   the  gulfs  of 
night. 

4 


ARISE,  O  soul,  and  gird  thee  up  anew, 
Though  the  black  camel  Death  kneel  at 

thy  gate  ; 
No  beggar  thou  that  thou  for  alms  shouldst 

sue; 

Be  the  proud  captain  still  of  thine  own 
fate! 

4 


69 


Bn  Oaten  Pipe. 


Le  temps  ou  la  mort  sent  nos  remedes.—  Rousseau. 

FOR  love  that  blights,  for  pain  that  slowly 

wastes, 
Tor  fears  that  haunt,  for  hopes  that  ever 

flee, 

For  sorrow  that  abides,  for  joy  that  hastes  — 
Or  time  or  death  hath  sovran  remedy. 


NOT  they  are  blest  who  greet  the  morning's 

sun, 
Nor  they  on  whom  the  sultry  noontide 

glows, 

But  blest  are  they,  life's  labors  being  done, 
Whom  evening  calls  unto  its  dusk  repose. 


* 
70 


©aten  pipe. 


£orc  and  Scanty. 

I  FOLLOW  Love,  and  Beauty  twin  to  Love, 
Beauty  so  beautiful  and  Love  so  sweet ; 
They  smile  and  beckon   to  me  where  they 

move, 

Yet  e'er    elude   my  clogged    and  stum 
bling  feet. 


<9n  the  ^f rival  of  the 

NEW  voices  twittering  in  the  ear  of  Time 
Hush  the  full-throated  songs  we  knew  of 

yore  ; 

But  morn  returns  again,  as  in  its  prime, 
To  wake  the  old  sweet  minstrelsy  once 
more. 


Hn  Oaten  Pipe. 


feat. 

THE  miser  year,  amid  his  songless  bowers, 
With  senile  eyes  gloats  o'er  his  gathered 

gold, 
And  laughs  and  mumbles  while,  in  rippling 

showers, 
It  sifts  between  his  ringers  thin  and  old. 


A  HOMESICK  angel,  with  sad  eyes, 
Upon  some  distant  sphere, 

Adown  the  dark  abysmal  skies 
Let  fall  one  golden  tear. 


72 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


YON  clouds  that  roam  the  deserts  of  the 

air, 
On  wind-swift  barbs,  o'er  many  an  azure 

plain, 
Scarce   pause   to   lift  to  Allah  one   small 

prayer, 

Ere    Ishmael's   spirit   drives  them  forth 
again. 


&n  Epitaph. 

Here  lies  a  heart,  once  love's  own  shrine, 

whence  rolled 
The  smoke    and   flame  of   unconsumed 

desire  ; 

The  flames  are  perished  now,  the  altar  cold, 
Yet  ev'n    its  ashes  hide  a  smouldering 
fire. 

4 
73 


an  ©aten  pipe. 


O  PAIN,  and  art  thou  come  to  be  my  guest  ? 
Then  will  I  not  deny  thee ;  lo,  I  greet 
With  smiles  thy  coming ;  thy  wan  face 

is  sweet, 
And  to  mine  own  let  thy  parched  lips  be 

pressed 
With  fond  beguilement ;  on   mine   aching 

breast 
Pillow  thine  head  ;  and  while  the  hours  on 

feet 

Of  flame  run  by  or  haltingly  or  fleet, 
Here  shalt  thou  find  thine  own  compan 
ioned  rest. 

Nay,  now  I  know  that  who  accepteth  thee, 
Howe'er  his  hands  may  falter,  hath  thy 

leave 
To  loose  thy  mask  and  see  thee  as 

thou  art, — 

How  that  thy  forehead  shines  angelically, 
And  thy  deep  eyes  mysteriously  weave 
A   spell    at    length    to    hush     the 
anguished  heart. 
74 


Bn  Oaten  Pipe. 


(Isle  of  Wight— October,  1892.) 

HE  sleeps  the  sleep  that  knows  no  earthly 

waking ; 

But  now  for  him  above  eternal  hills, 
The    cloudless  dawn    of  deathless  day    is 

breaking, 
And  splendor  fills 
The  orbit  of  his  vision  glorified. 
Not  yet  the  glad  surprise 
Hath  faded  from  his  eyes 
Of  that  first  raptured  gazing  on  the  slopes 

of  Paradise. 

New  is  the  song  he  sings ; 
His  valiant  voice  outrings 
Through  all  the  spaces  wide, 
Roofed  with  the  lights  celestial  which  o'er- 

dome 
That  bourne  where  radiant  spirits  seek  their 

home. 

75 


Sn  ©aten  pipe. 


Him  doth  the  vast  deep  mourn, 

And  round  this  isle  that  knew  his  wandering 

feet 

On  restless  winds  is  borne 
A  sigh  of  lamentation  vague  and  fleet. 
The  silent  ships  go  by, 
To  find  their  haven  'neath  an  autumn  sky, 
As  conscious  that  no  more 
Shall  he  behold  them  who  of  yore 
Chanted  their  conquest  over  wind  and  wave. 
Ay,  he  is  in  his  grave, 
Where   the  huge  minster's  shadowy  arches 

soar, 

And  where  the  mighty  city's  hollow  roar 
Rolls  down  the  endless  streets. 
Him  the  blithe  day  greets 
No  longer  in  the  garden  that  he  knew, 
Where  bright  for  him  the  larkspur  grew, 
And  roses  shed  their  sweets — 
Where  sounds  of  morn  and  even  did  uprise 
In  infinite  harmonies. 
O,  yet  we  do  but  err 
To  deem  that  beauty's  worshiper 
Forsakes  its  shrine 

76 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


At  summons  of  the  Voice  divine ; 

For  he  hath  passed  into  that  inner  place 

Where  now  he  seeth,  face  to  face, 

Eternal  Beauty  as  it  is. 

Him  shall  the  dews  not  miss, 

Nor  the  brave  grass,  nor  flowers  that  bud 

and  blow, 

Nor  the  cool  brooks  that  flow 
By  wood  and  fell-side  to  the  wooing  sea  : 
Henceforth  he  is  a  part  of  them,  for  he 
Shall  be  resolved  into  that  essence  pure 
Which  ever  shall  endure 
As  loveliness  in  stream,  and  hill,  and  tree. 
His  voice  men  still  shall  hear 
In  whispering  leaves,  and  in  the  noonday 

choir 

Of  summer  insects,  and  the  dawn-song  clear 
Where  morn  plants  on  the  downs  her  feet 

of  fire. 

He  still  shall  sing  within  the  rhythmic  tides 
That  ocean  rolls  above  its  caverns  hoar, 
And  in  the  unheard  music  that  e'er  slides 
Through  gulfs  of  night  from  many  a  star- 

sprent  shore. 

77 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


His  song  from  countless  joyous  feathered 

throats 

Shall  bubble  at  daybreak  and  at  evenfall, 
And  those  far  elf-land  notes 
He  loved  shall  echo  in  the  iterant  call 
Of    black-stoled    crickets    on    the    winter 

hearth. 

By  many  a  norland  firth 
Where  the  shrewd  blasts  whine  round  the 

icy  peaks, 

By  many  a  desert  strand 
Where  the  Pacific  ever  idly  breaks 
A  tumbled  billow  round  the  lonely  land, 
Where'er  is  sound  or  song,  there  shall  be 

heard, 

Sweet  as  the  memory  of  love's  dying  word, 
The  master's  tone  in  nature's  symphony, 
Till  Time  shall  furl  his  wings  and  cease  to 

be. 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


BENEATH  the  drifted  snow  she  keeps 

Her  children  safe  from  harm  ; 
Each  folded  germ  securely  sleeps 

In  silence  sweet  and  warm. 

And  when  the  laughing  wind  shall  break 

The  bonds  of  Winter's  night, 
Then  from  their  sleef  Jie  flowers  shall  wake 

To  seek  the  pleasant  light. 

The  Spring-time  ever  comes.     O  soul ! 

Though  loosed  the  silver  cord, 
And  shattered  is  the  golden  bowl, 

And  on  the  trampled  sward 

The  pitcher  at  the  fountain  lies 

Beside  the  broken  wheel, 
O'er  thee  shall  bend  the  kindly  skies, 

And  balmy  breaths  unseal 
79 


an  ©aten  pipe. 


Death's  frosty  silence  with  a  kiss 

Light  as  an  angel's  wing, 
And  thou  shall  wake  'mid  tides  of  bliss 

To  hear  God's  minstrels  sing. 


80 


Bn  <$>aten  pipe. 


jeit  (Orare. 

YEA,  "  work  is  vvorkship,"  said  that  hoary 

man, 
Who  o'er  the  wintry  sea,  from  his  frore 

height 
Of  four-score  years  and  six,  with  ageless 

sight 
Watched  still   the   bodeful  struggle  in  the 

van 
Of  the   world's   progress;  for  he  did  not 

scan 
The  fray  as  one  who  had  not  tried  the 

fight, 

But  as  one  who  had  battled  for  the  right, 
And  freed  his  own  soul  from  the  coward's 

ban. 
Yea,  work  is  workship,  work  that's  one  with 

pain; 
Work  born  of  consecration  and  of  trust ; 


Bn  Oaten 


Work  wrought  with  bruised  hand  and  weary 

brain, 

Consenting  to  the  meager  cup  and  crust : 
Such  work    is  worship  ;    'tis  not  counted 

vain ; 

God  marks  His  toilers  by  their  sweat  and 
dust. 


82 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


&  iativittj. 

HE  came  when  the  petals  of  the  rose  were 

blown 
Down  the  long  aisles  of  windy  woodlands, 

where 
The  leaves  fell  thick  as  raindrops  through 

the  air, 
And  half-choked    runnels  made  incessant 

moan. 

He  came,  from  Paradise  but  lately  flown, 
Upon  his  brow  the  halo  angels  wear, 
And  in  his  eyes  the  memory  of  the  fair 
Far  scenes  of  blessedness  that  they  had 
known. 

O  miracle  of  life,  continued  still, 

Though  earth's   frail    generations  wend 
from  sight, 

83 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


And  nameless  shadows  of  the  darkness  fill 
The  orbs  that  turn  toward  the  coming 

night, 
Thine  is  the  pledge  that  morn  again  shall 

thrill 
Our  wakened  souls  with  music  of  the  light 


Bn  ©aten  pipe. 


irf  the  9t' 


O  VALLEY  as  fair  as  a  vision, 
O  river  as  bright  as  a  dream, 

0  fields  sweet  as  meadows  Elysian, 

0  valley,  O  meadows,  O  stream, 

1  leave  thee  to-day  and  forever, 
Yea,  I  pass  as  a  tale  that  is  told, 

But  this  flesh  from  my  spirit  shall  sever 
Ere  my  love  for  thee  fails  or  grows  cold. 

O  heights  that  are  clothed  with  the  sunlight, 

As  the  hills  of  our  God  shine  afar, 
Henceforth  thou   shalt  stand  in  but    one 

light 

Shed  abroad  from  a  shadowless  star  ; 
For  lo  !  the  clear  orb  of  remembrance 

Through  sorrow  and  time  shall  not  wane, 
And  though  tears  should  obscure  thee  and 
distance, 

1  shall  see  thee  in  memory  again. 

85 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


"  Be  sure  your  sin  will  find  you  out." — A"«;«.  32  :  zj. 

THE  night  is  long,  the  moon  is  cold, 

The  stars  faint  in  the  icy  sky, 
My  pulses  wane,  my  heart  is  old, 

And  yet  I  should  not  dare  to  die. 
Before  me  ever  stands  my  sin, 

A  wraith  that  will  not  disappear ; 
Its  outstretched  hands  are  pale  and  thin, 

And   through  them    sifts  the  moonlight 
clear. 

Once  from  this  ghost  I  sought  to  hide 

Where   music    clashed    and    lights    did 

flare, 
I  turned  my  eyes,  lo !  at  my  side, 

Chill,  mist-like,  silent,  it  was  there. 
Then  to  the  wilderness  I  fled, 

In  sackcloth  wrapped  my  bitter  shame, 
Poured  ashes  on  my  stricken  head — 

O  God  !  it  o'er  me  stood  the  same. 
86 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


Then  an  unquiet  bed  in  hell 

At  length  in  sheer  despair  I  made, 
But  while  the  shadows  round  me  fell, 

Beside  me  rose  a  blacker  shade ; 
Till  suddenly  the  foul  eclipse 

Refused  to  clothe  my  spirit  stark, 
And  while  I  shrieked  with  stiffened  lips, 

From  off  me  rolled  the  frightened  dark. 

And  now  I  drift  about  the  world ; 

My  eyes  are  emptied  of  their  tears  ; 
My  hopes  like  chaff  are  round  me  whirled ; 

And  all  my  soul  is  scourged  with  fears. 
The  moon  sinks  low,  the  night  is  long ; 

Beneath  a  cold  and  prayerless  sky 
I  stand,  watched  by  my  spectral  wrong, 

Afraid  to  live,  afraid  to  die. 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


THE   tawny  sands   slip   downward    in   the 

glass 
Noiseless   and   smooth,    a   pulse    whose 

even  flow 
No  boisterous   winds   can   vex    howe'er 

they  blow, 
A  tide   across  whose   breast    no    shadows 

pass. 
Lo !    yellow   bees   that   drone    in   summer 

grass, 
A  mill  whose  mossy  wheel  has  ceased  to 

go. 
A  hawk  above  a  woodland  sailing  slow, 

A   sunny  field   reaped  by  a   brown-armed 

lass — 

All  these  like  visions  rise  upon  my  soul, 
Till,  wholly  meshed  in  Fancy's  sorceries, 


88 


Bn  ©atcn  pipe. 


While  still  the  grains  sift  from  the  crystal 

bowl, 
I    feel     against    my   brow    a    phantom 

breeze, 
And  see  o'er  gleaming  sands    the    long 

waves  roll, 

And   hear   the   washings  of  the   orient 
seas. 


89 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


HER   footsteps   gleam    upon     the   eastern 

slope, 
And  beds  of  primrose  blush  beneath  her 

tread  ; 

Her  virgin  eyes  are  luminous  with  hope, 
Her  dewy  locks  down   ripple  from  her 

head; 
Her  feet  are  bare,  her  garments  smell  of 

myrrh, 
And  all  the  little  flowers  lean  to  her. 

To  greet  her  coming,  lo  !  the  woods  awake 

With  jubilation,  and  the  pasture-lands, 
Where   rove   the   herds,    are    strewn   with 

many  a  flake 

Of  lambent  fire,  as  by  invisible  hands ; 
Deep  unto  deep  sends  forth   its  jocund 

call, 
The  earth  is  glad,  and  God  is  over  all. 


90 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


ICave  <&ivt#  itjs  gilt. 

LOVE  gives  its  all  nor  counts  the  price, 
Happy  that  thus  it  still  may  show 

In  an  unmeasured  sacrifice 
Its  precious  overflow. 

Where  eyes  are  dimmed  with  lonely  tears, 
Where  hearts  are  bowed  with  grief  and 

care, 
Where   weakness   walks    'mid   gloom   and 

fears — 
Love  sheds  its  healing  there. 

Love's  hands  are  strong  to  lift  and  save ; 

Down  pain's  dark  ways  Love  goes  afar  ; 
Love's  beacon  shines  athwart  the  grave, 

And  kindles  like  a  star. 

Love   scales   the   height   and    probes    the 

deep, 

And  when  death's  shadow  o'er  us  lies, 
Love's  mighty  pinions  upward  sweep 
To  bear  us  to  the  skies. 
91 


JBn  Oaten  Pipe. 


I  WOULD  I  were  her  violin, 
To  rest  beneath  her  dimpled  chin, 
To  softly  kiss  her  swan-white  throat, 
And  breathe  my  love  through  every  note. 
When  o'er  my  strings  her  fingers  fair 
Should  lightly  wander  here  and  there, 
The  while  her  flashing  bow  did  press 
My  bosom  with  its  swift  caress, 
Then  would  I  waken  into  song 
The  rapture  that  had  slumbered  long. 
Mine  ear  against  her  swelling  breast 
Should  hearken  to  its  sweet  unrest, 
And — happy  spy  ! — then  should  I  know 
How,  deep  beneath  that  drifted  snow, 
A  blissful  tumult  in  her  heart 
Made  all  her  fluttering  pulses  start. 
Then  that  high  calm,  that  maiden  grace, 
That  meekly  proud  and  peerless  face, 
92 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 

That  aureole  of  sun-bright  hair, 
That  brow  such  as  the  seraphs  wear,- 
No  longer  these  should  baffle  quite 
The  anxious  lover's  dazzled  sight. 
Ah,  would  I  were  her  violin, 
That  thus  her  secret  I  might  win. 


93 


Hn  Oaten  pipe. 


As  townward  mistress  Betty  goes 

With  tossing  head  and  haughty  lips, 
And  dainty,  outward-pointing  toes 

That  spurn  the  path  o'er  which  she  trips, 
She  recks  not  how  yon  sleek  young  blades 

Begin  to  ogle,  smirk  and  purr, 
Nor  yet  how  all  the  kerchiefed  maids 

Are  whispering  after  her. 

As  Betty  goes  she  walks  alone, 

Her  gathered  kirtle  in  her  hand  ; 
She  curtsies  not  to  any  one, 

She  sees  no  smiles,  however  bland  ; 
Her  bosom,  veiled  by  silken  braids, 

Is  sweet  as  hills  that  drop  with  myrrh, 
While  still  the  sly  and  tittering  maids 

Stand  gazing  after  her. 
94 


an  Oaten  pipe. 

Ah,  Betty  goes  to  meet  her  fate  ! 

Bold  Roger  lurks  by  yonder  stile ; 
She  spies  him,  but  alas  !  too  late ; 

With  him  avails  no  scornful  wile. 
Now  all  her  helpless  pride  he  raids, 

And  traitor  longings  in  her  stir, 
While  o'er  their  shoulders  men  and  maids 

Make  merry  after  her. 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


^  g  usafc. 

ALA.S  I  I  am  a  gray-beard ; 

My  years  are  fifty-three : 
I'm  old  and  grave,  but  Bessie  ne'er 

Will  sit  upon  my  knee. 

Yet  once  this  dimpled  maiden, 
With  bird-like  sounds  of  glee 

And  sweet  proprietary  airs, 
Would  perch  upon  my  knee. 

And  oft  we've  romped  together, 
When  summer  winds  blew  free, 

But  evening  stars  and  sleepy  eyes 
Brought  Bessie  to  my  knee. 

But  now  I  cannot  coax  her  ; 

What  can  the  difference  be  ? 
Her  gowns  are  long,  she  romps  no  more, 

Nor  sits  upon  my  knee. 


an  Oaten  Pipe. 


SOFT  as  the  dew  that  falls  by  night 
Beneath  the  moon's  entranced  light 
Upon  my  thirsty  heart  love  fell ; 
Love  slakes  my  drouth,  and  all  is  well. 

No  claustral  lily  lifteth  up 

More  eagerly  her  virgin  cup, 

To  quaff  the  balm-draught  from  above, 

Than  I  my  heart  to  drink  of  love. 

Now  all  my  days  are  dream-enwreathed 
And  perfume  on  my  dark  is  breathed ; 
Joy's  buds  within  my  bosom  swell ; 
Sing,  O  my  heart,  for  all  is  well. 


97 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


O  DARKENED  eyes  above  the  grass, 
O  have  you  seen  the  maiden  pass? 
Her  smile  is  like  the  morn,  they  say ; 
Her  forehead  fairer  than  the  day. 

With  some  who  know  it  not  she  walks ; 
By  cottage  gates  she  stands  and  talks ; 
She  flees  the  palace  and  the  hall, 
Nor  heeds  the  golden  tongues  that  call. 

She  lives  with  dawn  upon  the  hills  ; 
She  loiters  by  the  sliding  rills  ; 
Where  berries  grow,  her  lips  she  stains ; 
Her  cheeks  are  tanned  by  winds  and  rains. 

From  those  who  seek  her,  fast  she  flies, 

But  not  to  alien  suns  or  skies ; 

Oft  when  afar  her  lovers  roam, 

She  bides  beneath  the  vines  at  home. 

Few  prize  the  maid,  when  face  to  face 
They  see  her  lusty,  full-blown  grace  ; 
O  fools  and  blind,  alas  !  alas  ! 
Say,  have  you  seen  the  maiden  pass  ? 
98 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


"  Qui  sine  peccato  est  vestrum,  primus  in  illam  lapidem 
mittat." 

"  HATH  no  one  cast  a  stone  at  thee  ?  " 
"  Nay,  Lord,"  she  humbly  said, 
And  from  the  pavement  tearfully 
She  raised  her  fallen  head. 

With  anxious  hands  her  burning  face 
She  sought  to  hide ;  her  hair, 

A  midnight  stream,  with  careless  grace 
Flowed  round  her  shoulders  bare. 

"  Go  thou  and  sin  no  more."     His  eyes 

Like  heaven  above  her  bent, 
And  tremulous  with  awed  surprise 
She  from  Him  slowly  went. 


99 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


£hc  flight- ^ngcl. 

For  a  Picture. 

O  ANGEL  of  the  dark — through  vistas  dim, 
O'erhung  with  purple  shadows  of  the  night, 
Where   swarming  stars  like  multitudinous 

bees 
Hum  round  the  vast  and  hollow  arch  of 

heaven — 

On  tireless  pinions  thou  dost  ever  sweep, 
Secure  from  change.     Me  time  shall  surely 

bear 
To  failing  limbs,  scant  breath,  and   eyes 

that  peer 
Through  mists  that  gather  in  the  evening 

fields— 

But  thou  shalt  ever  spread  thy  flowing  robes, 
Spangled      with       constellations      never 

quenched, 

About  thy  fresh  young  form,  and  evermore 
Thine   arms   outstretched   shall   sift   from 

rosy  palms 

100 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


The    dews    that   slake    a    million    thirsty 

blooms. 
When    earth    to    her   warm    bosom    shall 

receive 
The  mold  that  once  hath  wrapt  this  vital 

spark — 

As  embers  hid  in  ashes  on  the  hearth — 
When   reels   my  forehead   dustward,  thou 

shalt  be 

Fair  as  that  hour  when  first  thy  gemmy  brow 
Took  the  cool  kisses  of  the  twilight  breeze, 
And  all  the  naked  world  did  welcome  thee. 
Let  me  grow  old  and  die — it  shall  be  well ; 
Though  I  forget  love's  steadfast  eyes  that 

burn 
Like  planets  in  their  spheres,  and   love's 

sweet  lips 

Whose  music  jangling  voices  cannot  vex, 
I  shall  remember  in  the  scented  gloom, 
Where  flowers  braid  their  roots,  that  thou 

dost  keep 

Thy  flight  along  the  highways  of  the  dusk 
Forever  lovely,  and  I  shall  be  glad. 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


WHAT  boots  it  to  give  me  your  hand  ? 

No  thrill  do  I  feel ; 

True,  once  it  was  otherwise — see,  o'er  the 
land 

The  long  shadows  steal. 

Ay,  once  a  soft  pair  of  dark  eyes 

Could  trouble  my  rest ; 
Could  wake  song  or  sorrow — behold,  the 
light  dies 

From  out  the  dim  west. 

I  loved  you ;  I  own  it  was  so ; 

But  all  that  is  dead ; 
So  come,  we  are  lingering  late,  let  us  go — 

The  twilight  has  fled. 


Hn  ©aten  pipe. 


ZtaoTtoiiut. 

O  HEART,  lift  up  a  brave  song, 

For  it  is  good  to  be  ; 
We  will  not  sing  a  grave-song, — 

Avaunt,  mortality  ! 

Far  from  us  be  the  wormy  mold 
Where  Sorrow's  footsteps  fall ; 

Far  from  us  be  the  phantoms  cold 
That  through  the  darkness  call. 

Now  let  us  lift  a  morning  lay  ; 

The  sun  is  in  the  sky  ; 
The  winds  of  God  about  us  play  ; 

An  angel  rustles  by. 

And  there  is  dew  upon  the  sward, 
And  flowers  are  in  the  grass, 

And  lo  !  the  glory  of  the  Lord 
Gleams  where  his  garments  pass. 


Bn  ®atcn  pipe. 


STILL  as  of  old  the  morning  breaks  ; 

The  brook  delays  its  mimic  flood, 
And  in  its  soft  embrace  it  takes 

The  ivy-mantled  wood. 

Within  the  elm  the  robin  sings ; 

The  lilac  blooms  beside  the  bars ; 
And  through  the  shadows  evening  brings 

Look  down  the  early  stars. 

And  day  by  day  the  cheerful  sounds 
Arise  of  those  who  sow  or  reap, 

Who  wake  to  tread  life's  common  rounds, 
And  turn  again  to  sleep. 

The  seasons  come  and  go  apace, 

And  naught  is  changed  mine   eyes  can 
see ; 

But  in  its  grave  lies  one  dear  face 
That  was  the  world  to  me. 

104 


Bn  ©aten  pipe. 


FROM  all  its  little  bells  the  brook 

Shakes  out  a  silver  peal, 
And  faintly  from  the  forest  nook 

Their  elfin  echoes  steal. 
The  shadows  lengthen  on  the  sward  ; 

The  light  dies  in  the  west ; 
Now  through  the  dewy  twilight,  Lord, 

Send  down  the  balm  of  rest. 

The  glimmering  kine  upon  the  grass 

Lie  couched  in  dumb  content, 
And  wandering  breaths  of  blossoms  pass, 

In  one  rich  perfume  blent ; 
The  braided  gnats  in  sweet  accord 

Wail  where  the  willows  weep  ; 
Now  through  the  solemn  night,  dear  Lord, 

Send  down  the  gift  of  sleep. 


an  ©aten  pipe. 


0  LOVE,   our  brows  are  toward  the  open 

sea; 
Our  eyes  look   onward   to   the   nearing 

strand ; 
The  salt  winds  on  our  cheeks  blow  fresh- 

eningly, 
And  strange  sea-voices  haunt  the  reedy 

land. 

1  know  not  where  thy  footsteps  fall,  nor  yet 
What  skies  o'erarch  thee,  but  I  know  full 

well 

That  thy  face,  like  my  own,  is  seaward  set, 
Drawn    thither   by   the   same   resistless 
spell. 

We  shall  not  fail  to  stand  beside  the  deep, 
And  though  our  feet  may  falter  as  we  go, 
Still  one  unerring  course  we  ever  keep 
Toward  that  long  level  where  the  sea- 
tides  flow. 

1 06 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


The  evening  shades  are  gathering  cool  and 

sweet ; 

The  moving  waste  awaits  us  ;  O  my  bride 
That  never  wast,  set  sail ;  our  hands  shall 

meet 
When  we  make  harbor  on  the  other  side. 


107 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


THREE  days  the  harrowed  earth  had  swept 

Across  the  star-sown  gulfs  of  space, 
Since  she  beside  that  grave  had  wept 

Which  hid  her  first-born's  sinless  face ; 
Her  heart  was  dark,  her  lamp  was  quenched, 

Her  fluttering  hope  untimely  dead, 
And  night  by  night  her  sorrow  drenched 

The  fevered  pillow  at  her  head. 

Then  as  the  dark  began  to  wane, 

And  Easter  morn  within  the  skies 
Its  rose  of  promise  set  again, 

Sleep  fell  upon  her  weary  eyes ; 
And  as  she  slept  a  vision  came ; 

It  smiled,  and  lightly  clasped  her  hand, 
And  swiftly  moved,  on  feet  of  flame, 

Past  many  a  strange  and  tropic  land. 

Far  eastward  through  the  gates  of  dawn, 
By  paths  of  pearl,  'mid  golden  mists, 

Where  strewn  o'er  many  a  dewy  lawn 
Burn  diamonds  and  amethysts, 
108 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


Straight  on  into  the  rising  day 

She  followed  still  her  flying  dream, 

To  where  with  festal  sounds  alway 

The  springs  of  glory  downward  stream  ; 

Where  throb  the  songs  that  never  cease, 

Where  dip  the  laurel  and  the  palm, 
Where  lilies  of  eternal  peace 

Breathe  airs  that  blow  from  hills  of  balm  ; 
Where  garmented  in  praise  One  stands 

Than  light  more  radiantly  fair, 
And,  joy  of  joys !  Whose  pierced  hands 

Lie  on  her  darling's  shining  hair. 

O  mother-love  !     O  pure  delight ! 

O  eyes  that  brim  with  blissful  tears ! 
Behind  her  dies  the  barren  night, 

Behind  her  sink  the  widowed  years  ; 
She  listened,  and  a  dear  Voice  spake  : 

"  Be  comforted,  thou  stricken  one, 
The  bruisdd  reed  I  ne'er  will  break  " — 

She  woke,  and  saw  the  Easter  sun. 


109 


an  Oaten  Pipe. 


HER  ankles  brush  the  dew-wet  grass ; 
The  birds  are  blithe  to  see  her  pass  ; 
Along  the  daisies,  golden-bright, 
Run  little  shivers  of  delight. 
Her  shining  pail  swings  on  her  arm  ; 
Within  her  hair  the  sun  lies  warm  ; 
No  cloud  is  in  the  morning  skies  ; 
No  shadow  veils  her  April  eyes; 
Songs  gurgle  from  her  heart  and  lips, 
As  o'er  the  field  she  lightly  trips, 
To  where  beside  the  smooth-worn  gate 
Her  swollen-uddered  cattle  wait. 
Yet  ere  her  task  she  shall  essay, 
She  will  not  start  and  turn  away 
If  suddenly  her  cheek  be  pressed 
To  happy  Colin's  lusty  breast, 
The  while  upon  her  tender  mouth 
He  slakes  love's  oft-recurring  drouth. 
Ah,  who  would  not  gray  wisdom  miss, 
To  feel  again  the  velvet  kiss 
That  thrilled  the  lyric  heart  of  yore  ? 
Who — who  would  not  be  young  once  more  ? 
1 10 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


3tt  Jfunsrt. 

NOT  now,  not  now,  not  of  this  veiled  sun 
Nor  tenuous  shade,  our  tremulous  love 

was  born, 

But  when  the  sheer  night  feathered  to 
ward  the  morn, 

And  the  faint  stars,  like  tapers,  one  by  one 
Died  in  the  dawn,  and  the  chill  night  was 

done. 

'Twas  when  the  light  wind  o'er  the  breath 
ing  corn 
Winnowed  his  vans,  and  from  each  gossa- 

mered  thorn 
Billowed  the   dew-pearled  gonfalons    day 

had  won. 
Then  had  our  love  its  birth — a  fluttering 

thing, 

That  scarce  knew  if  the  fire-fledged  morn 
had  come, 

in 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


Or  if  to  swell  its  moon-white  throat  and 

sing, 
Or  bid,  'mid  twilight  leaves,  its  voice  be 

dumb. 
But  now  day  wanes — Dear,  doth  desire  take 

wing  ? 

Doth  the  grasshopper  e'en  grow  burden 
some  ? 


112 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


In  tte 

How  wearily  the  day  goes  by  ! 

The  hateful  shadows  on  the  wall 
Hour  after  hour  unmoving  lie  ; 

Outside,  I  hear  the  sparrows  call. 

The  garden  walks,  white  in  the  glare, 
Throb  like  a  pulse  beneath  the  heat ; 

I  see  the  sun-dial  blindly  stare  ; 
I  count  the  fountain's  steady  beat. 

Along  their  beds  the  flowers  droop ; 

All  wilted  is  the  trellised  vine ; 
The  branches  of  the  ash-tree  stoop 

With  dusty  berries  red  as  wine. 

The  fly  sings  in  the  leaded  panes  ; 

And  from  the  echoing  chapel  steal 
The  livelong  day  the  distant  strains 

Of  hymn  and  chant  and  organ-peal. 
"3 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


I'm  tired  of  the  rustling  swish 

Of  trailing  robes  o'er  chilly  stones ; 

I  wish — what  is  it  that  I  wish  ? 

I  know  a  crypt  where  mouldy  bones 

Are  piled  against  the  vaulted  roof ; 

There  a  low  taper  ever  smokes  ; 
The  jangling  bell  sounds  far  aloof, 

And  muffles  its  unceasing  strokes. 

There — there  are  silence,  gloom  and  rest ; 

No  measured  step,  no  solemn  air, 
No  meek  cross  o'er  a  rebel  breast, 

No  downcast  eyes,  no  muttered  prayer. 

Outside,  the  blinking  waters  lie  ; 

Beyond,  the  great  world  swings  and  roars, 
Where  many  an  infant's  tender  cry 

Leaps  forth  from  happy  human  doors. 

O  flesh,  vex  not  my  faltering  soul, 
Nor  let  my  fancy,  wandering  wide 

From  crucifix  and  saintly  stole, 

Defile  the  Bridegroom's  virgin  bride. 
114 


Bn  ©atcn  pipe. 


Bride  ? — ah,  I  hate  this  loathsome  cell ! 

I  hate  yon  altar  where  I  kneel, 
While  still  with  mumbling  lips  I  tell 

The  prayers  my  heart  can  never  feel. 

Bride  ? — still  I  think  on  perfumed  aisles, 
On  arching  boughs,  on  grass  that  springs 

By  streams  that  keep  their  morning  smiles, 
Where  swallows  dip  their  glancing  wings  ; 

Where  whispers  stir  the  scented  dark 
Of  screening  leaves,  and  where  the  place 

Grows  sweet  with  violet  eyes  that  mark 
The  truth  and  beauty  in  his  face. 

His  face — whose  face  ?     My  hair  is  wet 
With  fevered  drops ;  my  hands  are  weak  ; 

I  know  the  signal  that  is  set 
In  crimson  on  my  hollow  cheek. 

And  Sister  Agnes,  with  the  eyes 

Like  doves'  eyes,  comes  to  softly  weep  ; 

Upon  my  brow  her  cool  hand  lies  ; 
I  close  my  lids  and  feign  to  sleep. 
"5 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


For  I  would  be  alone  to  dream  ; 

I  love  my  dreams ;  thus  I  escape 
These  maddening  walls  that  ever  gleam, 

Those  sickened  blooms,  that   yellowing 
grape. 

The  sluggard  moments  come  and  pass ; 

The  flickering  light  fades  from  the  sill; 
I  hear  the  sounds  of  evening  mass, 

Of  closing  doors,  and  all  is  still. 

And  o'er  the  ash-tree  hangs  a  star 
That  trembles  through  the  twilight  gray ; 

'Tis  night ;  a  watch-dog  bays  afar ; 
Dear  God,  send  not  another  day  1 


116 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


of  tint 

O  ANGUISH  of  parting! — here  swerve  the 

ways, 
This  path  to  the.  right,  and  that  to  the 

left; 

We  are  come  at  length  to  our  day  of  days, 
To  our  moment  of  moments,  and  are  be 
reft. 

Even  so — I  will  hold  your  hand  for  a  space, 
Look  once  again  in  your  truth-clear  eyes, 
Read  over  the  lines  of  your  patient  face, 
That  my  soul  may  yet  hold  you  picture- 
wise. 

Shall  we  say  it  is  best  that  it  should  be  so  ? 

Were  Fate  not  loth,  and  had  we  met 
While    the    hills    were    washed   with   the 

morning-glow, 

And  all  the  valleys  with  balm  were  wet, 
We  had  found  our  life,  then,  you  and  I, 
Laid  hands  on  the  full  warm  pulse  of  the 
years, 

117 


Hit  Oaten  fiMpc. 


Had  drained  the  chalice  of  blessings  dry, 
Nor  e'er  set  lip  to  this  cruse  of  tears. 

Still,  who  shall  deny  that  this  bitter  hour, 

As  a  blind  seed  sown  in  the  womb  of 

Time, 
May  bear  not  yet  its  consummate  flower 

In  another  sphere  and  another  clime  ? 
Who  knows  that  our  loss  is  not  rarer  gain  ? 

That  ever  like  fools  we  choose  the  less  ? 
That  the  core  of  joy  is  swathed  in  pain, 

And  peace  in  uttermost  weariness  ? 

The  sun  drops  low,  and  the  twilight  falls ; 
The  mist  hangs  over  the  moaning  burn 
Like  a  frosty  breath  ;  a  late  bird  calls, 
And  above  the   wood    the   young  stars 

yearn. 

Must  it  be  farewell  ? — yea,  it  must  be  so, 
And  we  shall  fare   well,  despite  grief's 

threat, 
For  still,  wherever  our  feet  may  go, 

Our  brows  towards  the  self-same  goal  are 
set. 

118 


Bn  ©atcn  pipe. 


Jfapplw. 

WHERE  is  that  bay-crowned  head  supreme 

in  song? 
The  tides  that  darkle  round  the  Leuca- 

dian  steep 

Lap  her  forever  into  deeper  sleep ; 
About  her  heart  of  fire  the  cool  waves  long 
Like    cerements    have    been    wound,   and 

voices  strong 

Of  winds  and  waters  o'er  her  pillow  keep 
Their  boisterous  lullaby.     That  frenzied 

leap 

From  the  hoar  height,  when  sense  of  sharp 
est  wrong 
Ran  in  her  blood  like  flame — the  fears  that 

strove 
Within  her  stormy  soul — the  lyric  tongue 


Bn  Oaten  pipe. 


Whose  last  high  music  rang  through  realms 

of  love, 
Till  hushed  by  that  sea-weird  which  o'er 

her  flung 

Its  sudden  doom, — ah,  all  the  dole  thereof 
No  equal  tears  have  wept,  no  lips  have 
sung. 


120 


Bn  Oaten  Pipe. 


of 

SOFTLY,  passer,  softly  tread, 
Here  lies  Timas  who  is  dead  ; 
Ere  her  bridal  robe  was  made, 
For  the  tomb  she  was  arrayed. 
When  she  died,  with  tender  care 
All  the  virgins  dressed  their  hair, 
Reaping  from  each  lovely  head 
Curls  for  strewments  o'er  her  bed. 


121 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


THE  flags  are  hot  beneath  my  feet, 
And  up  and  down  the  roaring  street, 
'Twixt  blazing  fronts  of  brick  and  stone, 
No  gracious  breath  of  air  is  blown. 
I  hear  a  wheezy  violin 
Above  the  vast  unceasing  din, 
Where  at  the  corner,  with  bare  head, 
A  beggar  sits  blind  as  the  dead. 
There  creeps  misshapen,  pale  and  lean, 
A  cripple,  in  whose  hands  is  seen 
A  banner  whoso  runs  may  read, 
That  "  Levy  never  fails  to  lead 
In  clothing  and  in  shoes."     Now  loud 
Above  the  turmoil  of  the  crowd, 
Straight  through  the  city's  throbbing  heart, 
'Mid  knots  of  vans  that  swiftly  part, 
Its  harsh  gong  pealing  warningly, 
An  ambulance  goes  dashing  by. 
122 


&n  ©aten  pipe. 


A  newsboy  shrieks  and  flaunts  his  wares ; 
A  truckman  on  the  car-track  swears 
And  turns  aside  his  ponderous  dray, 
As  the  bell  clangs  to  clear  the  way. 
There  Beauty  sweeps  by  Squalor's  side ; 
There  Vice  and  Fashion  proudly  ride  ; 
There  still  within  his  gilded  gates 
Sits  Dives,  while  gaunt  Lazarus  waits 
Outside,  with  dull  and  weary  eye, 
For  some  kind  soul  to  come  and  buy 
His  shoestrings  or  his  pins. 

And  yet, 

I  know  a  bank  where  ferns  are  wet 
With  morning  balm,  where  mosses  grow, 
And  'mid  lush  sedges  softly  flow 
The  netted  currents  of  a  stream 
Snared  in  its  own  melodious  dream. 
There   glance  brave  wings  ;  there   many  a 

sound 

Of  silver  bugles  lightly  wound 
Steals  sweetly  through  the  haunted  shade 
Of  grassy  isle  and  bosky  glade. 
And  there  lives  faith  in  all  things  good ; 
There  whispers  stir  the  solitude 
12.1 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


Like  prayers  ;  and  there  again  grow  bright 
The  spirits  that  were  clogged  with  night. 
There  Care  her  haggard  mask  lays  by 
To  let  young  Hope  smile  in  her  eye, 
While  every  breeze  from  perfumed  fields 
To  Grief  a  sure  nepenthe  yields. 
There  let  me  haste,  there  let  me  bide, 
Drenched  with  the  opulent  summer-tide. 


124 


Bn  Oaten  Pipe. 


et 

FROM  sun  to  sun,  on  silence-sandled  feet 
The  Hours  go  by,  and  on  each  nunlike 

face 
Who   will   may   catch  a  smile  than  dawn 

more  sweet, 

Or,  leaden-eyed,  may    miss    its    fleeting 
grace. 

Within  her  hands  each  bears  a  goodly  gift, 
And  while  she  neither  proffers  nor  with 
holds, 

She  tarries  not  to  urge  upon  unthrift 
The  precious  things  she  yields  to  earnest 
souls. 

Not  one  returns ;  no  backward  look  is  cast ; 
Once  gone,  nor  call  nor  prayer  can  reach 

them  more, 
Clasped  round  with  shadows  of  the  vanished 

past, 

Housed  in  the  dim,  cloud-mantled  gates 
of  yore. 

125 


Bn  ©aten  pipe. 


ON  Judah's  hills  the  shadows  lie  ; 

Heaven's  frosty  diadem 
Of  clustered  stars  is  burning  high 

O'er  sleeping  Bethlehem. 

Lo,  countless  wings  flash  on  the  night, 

And  hark  !  celestial  strains 
Pour  down  the  glory-circled  height, 

O'er  all  the  slumbering  plains. 

Sing,  sing,  ye  white-robed  heralds,  sing ! 

In  yonder  narrow  shed, 
Straw-pillowed  lies  your  Lord  and  King 

Upon  his  lowly  bed. 

Moriah,  lift  thy  radiant  crest ; 

O  Judah,  be  not  dumb ! 
Messiah  nestles  on  thy  breast, 

The  Prince  of  Peace  hath  come. 


126 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


Content. 

A  BREATH  of  flowers,  a  flawless  sky, 

And  tipsy  bees  carousing  nigh ; 

A  vine  o'erhead  that  weaves  its  screen 

Of  flickering  shadows  cool  and  green  ; 

A  muffled,  silver-tinkling  bell 

Where  nibbling  sheep  climb  yonder  dell ; 

A  sinuous  stream  that  laughs  and  bubbles 

And  sings  amid  its  foamy  troubles ; 

A  hush  of  hours  that  softly  steep 

The  conscious  world  in  fumes  of  sleep — 

Ah,  these  no  anxious  thoughts  shall  give ; 

To-day  it  is  enough  to  live. 


127 


Sn  Oaten  pipe. 


WHAT  ! — old  ?    Not  so !    Who  says  we're 

old? 

Our  life  still  keeps  its  morning  gold; 
The  dew  still  shines  upon  the  grass 
Where'er  our  eager  footsteps  pass. 
Young  Hope  before  us  waves  his  wings, 
Lifts  up  his  voice  and  bravely  sings, 
While  ambushed  Joys,  with  twinkling  eyes, 
Betray  us  into  sweet  surprise. 
No,  we're  not  old  ;  the  lying  years 
Have  whispered  falsehoods  in  our  ears  ; 
We  still  are  young,  and  still  we  keep 
Our  youth's  fine  wisdom,  calm  and  deep — 
That  wisdom  which  still  holds  in  fee 
Faith  in  our  own  humanity, 
And  faith  in  God  who  veils  His  face, 
But  whose  large  language  still  we  trace 
128 


Bn  Oaten  Pipe. 


In  blooms  below  and  stars  above, 
Whose  burden  was  and  still  is — love. 
Old  ?     Fie  !     Go  to  !     Let  Gaffer  Time 
On  other's  temples  sow  his  rime, 
But  howe'er  wags  his  churlish  tongue, 
Our  own  hearts  tell  us  we  are  young. 


129 


Bn  Oaten  Pipe. 


!&tv  Naming. 

THE  DAWN. 

Now  moves  the  night  before  me,  and   the 

mist 
Slips  from  the  valley,  by  the  south-wind 

kissed. 

THE  MEADOW. 

Soon  will  her  light  feet  o'er  my  bosom  pass, 
And   daisies    star  her    foot-prints    in    the 
grass. 

THE  BROOK. 

And  I  shall  see  her  smile,  as  her  sweet  face 
Lingers  above  me  for  a  little  space. 

THE  BIRD. 

My  blithest  notes  I'll  flute  into  her  ear, 
And  her  dear  spirit  shall  lean  out  to  hear. 
130 


an  ©aten  pipe. 


THE  ROSE. 

My  petals  she  shall  touch  with  her  soft  lips, 
While  maiden  joy  thrills  to  her  finger-tips. 

THE  LOVER. 
O  Love,  I  wait  and  watch  the  new  day 

break  ; 

The  dews  are  drying,  and  the  winds  awake  ; 
Thou  art  my  morning;  let  thy  sovran  light 
Strike  on  my  soul  and  scatter  all  my  night. 


an  Oaten  pipe. 


I  know  her  where  she  goes  in  crimson  hood, 
And   motley  robe   that   sets   the  leaves 

astir ; 
Her  truant   hair,  strayed   from  its  silken 

snood, 
The  frost  has  lightly  tipped  with  minever. 

The  gypsy  blood  glows  in  her  sun-browned 

cheek ; 
Her  rounded  arms  with  liberal  fruits  are 

heaped  ; 
Her   wine-dark  eyes,  athwart  the  shifting 

reek 

Of  burning  weeds,  behold  the  fields  new- 
reaped. 

Too  brief  the  days  of  her  mild  empery, 
Yet  such  the  ample  largess  of  her  grace 

That  in  the  wintry  heart  of  memory 

Shall  still  abide  the  sunshine  of  her  face. 


132 


Bn  ©aten  pipe. 


the 

THE  music  dies,  and  one  by  one  the  guests 

Rise  and  depart;  the  merriment  is  done  ; 

Hushed  are  the  mingled  voices,  songs  and 

jests ; 
From  the  spent  glass  the  noiseless  sands 

are  run. 

Into  the  dark  the  feasters  turn  and  go, 
Some  with  brave  smiles,  and  some  with 

heavy  eyes ; 
The  drooping  flowers  are  pale,  the  lights 

burn  low, 

And  silence  on  the  empty  chambers  lies. 
The  last "  good-night  "  is  said ;  closed  is  the 

door; 
Then  slowly,  down  the  blossom-littered 

floor, 

The  weary  master  casts  a  wistful  eye, 
Peopling  the  gloom  with  ghostly  company. 


'33 


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UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

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AA   001221727   9 


